


The Near Miss

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [52]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Mycroft Holmes had gone to pieces when Greg Lestrade left him nearly years two ago. The two ex-lovers were well on the road to mending things between them. Sherlock Holmes rushed to Mycroft's home in fear when news reports announce Lestrade's death.





	The Near Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Face
> 
> These last few one-shots have turned into something of a continuing story. While each can stand on its own, based on its prompt, if it fits, I will be reordering them around to fit the tale chronologically as needed. This mini series begins at Part 45 with ["Out of Time"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886461) and continues through here.

“Do you see my face?! What the hell do you mean no one has told him?!” Sherlock thundered as he heard the news. “This is my brother. He would have seen the news on the plane – of course he knows!”

Sherlock’s face was a mask of suppressed fury. His pale eyes practically glowed with his rage and worry at such ineptitude.

John was immediately on his mobile dialing New York City.

“I’ll find him and have him make direct contact. Go!” John waved a hand as Sherlock headed for the door.

He grabbed his Belstaff and ran out of Baker Street.

_The idiots!_

Now he knew why his brother had not answered his calls or texts. Sherlock dialed Anthea with a rare video call.

“What happened?” Her usually placid expression immediately on alert knowing Sherlock almost never used video call. He told her what happened as he entered a taxi.

“WHAT?! Do they have any idea what they’ve DONE!” the woman’s face went from alert to livid before she took a breath and then slid smoothly back into professional mode. “I am currently handling the Kore – well, you don’t need to know about that. He’ll kill me if I abandon it. You’ll be more help right now than I anyway, I’ll assist John in finding out what broke down communications wise. Let me know if you need me personally and I will be there.” 

Anthea had learned a lot under Mycroft’s tutelage. She was very ruthless herself when on a tear and anything that upset her boss like this put her on a serious tear. Sherlock took small comfort in knowing someone was going to pay for that mistake and then he dismissed it.

He had a bigger problem right now.

His big brother.

“Good luck Mr. Holmes. It’s contained to the office, but…” Gonzalez, the head of Mycroft’s security at the townhouse sighed with obvious relief at the sight of him as Sherlock passed the security booth.

Sherlock remembered what his brother had been like the last time it was bad. He knew it was going to be worse as he walked through the townhouse quietly to Mycroft’s office.

“Sherlock, largohu!”

_Sherlock go away!_

_Not quietly enough. Why is he speaking Albanian?_

The consulting detective stopped cold at the open door to his brother’s office.

The usually immaculate room was in shambles.

Part of the heavy drapery hung from a broken rod where it was ripped from its moorings.

Both wing chairs in front of his massive wood desk were flung on their sides away from the desk, one with a broken leg.

The harsh scratches on the hardwood floor gave evidence of the several times that chair was lifted and missed the area rug as it was slammed to the floor before the leg broke.

Delicate objects from the curio, all of it once exquisite and expensive, now nothing but shattered rubbish.

Papers were strewn everywhere. Books had been pulled and flung around the room. One of the shelves itself had ben loosened from its moorings.

Sherlock picked up part of a leather-bound book published in the 1800s. The black ink on Ottoman polished paper with marginalia decorated in blue and gold and flowers. It had beautiful calligraphy and illumination.

It was worth a small fortune.

_Was_.

The room looked as though it had been hit by a hurricane.

And in a way it had.

A hurricane named Mycroft Holmes had come and lain the room to waste.

And in the eye of the hurricane was the man himself.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock stepped into the room slowly.

Mycroft was at his desk.

More precisely Mycroft was on the floor slouched in front of his desk. He had been there for a couple of hours going by the state of his clothes. He had stopped in the removal of his waist coat which hung off one shoulder. Snot, tears and crimson drool stood out starkly against the white of his shirt. The neck of a whiskey decanter now on its side was bloody as it dripped what was left of its contents to the carpet by Mycroft’s left hand. It told the tale of his cut his lip from drinking directly from the chipped decanter.

_Oh Mycroft! Is this what it took for you to really know? Did you have to feel you lost everything? _

On the floor, between his brother’s legs, was the source of his despair in 8x10s, 5x7s, and 3x4s; various news and magazine clippings.

They were all images of _him_. The only _him_ that really mattered to Mycroft now.

Gregory Lestrade.

Some photos were old, when Lestrade was young. Some in his teens years before Greg and Sherlock met.

_I never knew he played guitar!_

The strong jaw, the warm brown eyes, the friendly smile, a few captured that scowl that even in his youth that you knew meant business. Back when the man’s hair was all-dark. More recent clippings from when he had made the news after the premature grays made the hair silver. Images and mementos even Sherlock was not aware was in Mycroft’s possession.

Sherlock knew Mycroft did not need the objects themselves. It was all in his brother’s mind.

He had them out because needed something physical to hold.

And in his right hand was the most prized of the possessions.

A photograph.

“Lë мяне ў sola venligst!”

_What? Oh… _

_Oh no!_

_It’s much worse than I thought. _

Mycroft carried the weight of the world in his mind as Atlas carried the physical world on his shoulders. As such, Mycroft prized his mind as greatly if not more than Sherlock prized his own. Unfortunately, his brother was even worse at taking care himself than Sherlock. Every now and then the cerebral balance shifted off center. And in the case of Mycroft the shifted weight crossed and pressed on mental wires. And those crossed wires manifested itself in his speech.

Because Mycroft Holmes is a man fluent in multiple languages.

Because when Mycroft Holmes’ wires cross, he speaks them all at once.

Because Mycroft Holmes is precise and systematic, even his crossed wires are in a pattern if one understands the man.

_Lë мяне ў sola venligst!_

_Albanian. Belarusian. Croatian. Danish…_

_Leave me alone please!_

Each word was a different language - alphabetically.

It had been nearly a decade since he last had an episode. That was when their father died.

This was much worse. He had not destroyed a room then.

This beautiful disaster was a testament to his pain and to his love.

_On brother mine you are so going to get it when this is over._

Sherlock took out his mobile.

I need that reinforcement ASAP. He’s gone linguistic. – SH

Shite! – JW

Fuck! – A

Will contact when found, leaving to connect now. – A

“Brother Mine?” he squatted next to the broken sight in front of him, just outside of the photos et cetera.

Mycroft did not respond. Sherlock knew he was heard for Mycroft’s breath hitched slightly at sound of his voice. Mycroft remained silent for a long while.

Sherlock was about to touch him when his brother raised his head at last. Pain etched in every crevice of the sallow complexion. His voice hoarse and raspy when he finally spoke.

“He’s mennyt…est tot…vah tá kojin …”

_English Finnish…French German…Hindi Irish Japanese…_

_He’s gone…is dead…he has departed…_

Sherlock was torn between helping him now and letting him be seen just as he was.

_It would serve him right._

“No, Brother Mine.” Sherlock whispered thickly “He’s not.”

“Neon mentitur! E så!”

Korean. Latin. Macedonian. Norwegian.

_You lie! It is so!_

Mycroft clutched the photograph close to his heaving chest.

“Moja miłość… Mērā pi'āra… Moya lyubov'…”

Polish. Punjabi. Russian.

_My love… My love... My love..._

Without seeing it, Sherlock knew which one.

It was the one and only photograph of the two lovers together.

It was a candid shot taken in the garden of the townhouse. It was taken back when things were good between them.

Back before Mycroft burned the bridge between them due his taking Greg for granted and neglect. Back before things had gone so incredibly bad between them. Before things got so bad, Gregory moved to New York City.

That was nearly two years ago. The bridge that Mycroft had carelessly destroyed had slowly been rebuilt and it was solid. Solid enough that Mycroft who doubted and second-guessed everything had started to feel assured that maybe, just maybe there was a chance for them again. 

Sherlock knew how much Mycroft still loved his ex. Sherlock knew how much Greg still loved Mycroft.

Even if Mycroft did not know it yet, Sherlock knew there would be physical reunion between the men soon.

And just when that most joyous reunion seemed on the be on the horizon, the news broke across the airwaves hours ago and shattered everything.

The news displayed on the television in the corner. It was on mute, it usually was. Mycroft listened to people speaking most days. He preferred no sound when at home, not even as white noise.

On the screen BBC1 news showed a split screen footage of a building with its roof collapsed, engulfed in flames. Several firefighters had their massive hoses aimed at the inferno. The other part of the screen showed a reporter speaking with images of the victims in the background. Sherlock knew it was one image specifically and the ticker that ran across the bottom of the screen that were the reason for the hurricane.

**Former New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade pronounced dead in terrorist attack of a prime minister's home in New York City. **

He immediately walked around and turned the television off.

The attack was real. The fire was real.

The death of the Prime Minister and her assistant was real.

Greg and a member of his team were dead according to the news.

_According to the news._

A snippet from one of Lestrade’s last press conferences with NSY was aired. The detective inspector’s face was set in a way Sherlock knew meant the man was annoyed at the time.

_Likely at me._

The explosion happened in the kitchen in the middle of the home. The conflagration moved so fast that it blew the assassin out the door into the yard. Lestrade who had run out the escape door into a neighboring yard had been spared from the worst of it by the garden wall between properties.

Not knowing if there were more shooters or if his cell phone was being tracked, Greg had made two calls as he ran. One because he needed to. The second he had to. He then destroyed his cell phone and laid low until retrieval.

The first call was for his extraction, just in case there were others in wait. Operating on pure adrenaline, Greg honestly did not remember that he was shot, until he was picked up and the team saw his injury. He was taken to a hospital under a pseudonym and taken straight into surgery.

The second call was an attempt to avoid what had unfortunately happened regardless. Gregory called the Lt. Luis Reyes who knew about the importance of Mycroft and that he needed to know Greg was alive. Unfortunately Reyes was out of state in the middle of an undercover sting operation. Three hours had passed before Reyes heard about the fire; but he could not do anything about it. Another two hours had passed before he was free to turn on his personal cell phone and received Greg’s message. Reyes panicked when he saw the time and immediately called the number given.

Reyes’ call was the epitome of better late than never.

Keeping the knowledge that Greg Lestrade was alive a secret, and investigating the fire, no one from Greg’s New York office had yet to contact anyone at his former office at New Scotland Yard or had let Lestrade’s family know.

Mycroft found out while in route from China. Devasted by the news he had not checked in via the usual protocols. Neither Anthea nor Sherlock knew he was home until Gonzalez called Anthea when Mycroft began to destroy his office.

The news had been spread for several hours when DI Sally Donovan, in mourning for her former boss, got the call from Lt. Reyes who explained the situation. She immediately conferenced in Sherlock knowing Mycroft had to be told. It was decided to let the false news continue for the public and not tell anyone else other than Greg’s immediate family and Mycroft.

Mycroft, who for the past few hours has been devastated by the death of his ex-lover.

Sherlock’s mobile pinged.

Found him! He should be Skyping in any minute now. – JW

Sherlock sent of a quick text to Anthea to let her know and quickly went to the desk when Mycroft’s laptop buzzed with the incoming Skype call.

_YES!_

It was the man himself.

* * *

The bullet had pierced his side, grazing his intestine. He had swelling from the injured area and blood loss and was extremely lucky nothing major was damaged. He was still bedridden for a bit but a full recovery was expected.

Greg was in recovery from surgery when Lt. Reyes received his message. It was another couple of hours before Alphonse Müller from his team got a replacement phone to Greg only to discover the desperate call from John Watson that he had missed by mere minutes. He called the doctor back immediately and learned that the emotional damage he had tried to avoid had happened anyway.

_My god Mycroft!_

“I’ll Skype him now John, thanks. Müller give me your laptop NOW!” Greg winced in pain as he hung up on John with one hand while he reached for Müller’s laptop with the other. He knew he was breaking all manner of protocol, he did not care as he took the laptop and ordered Müller out of the room.

He had to get to him, to Mycroft.

It seemed to take forever to log Müller out and himself in. He sighed with relief, never so happy to see Sherlock’s face in all his life. He could see Sherlock was in Mycroft’s home office.

“Sherlock! John just told me about Reyes’ delay. Where is he?”

“Greg, he’s gone linguistic, but you need to see something first before I let you speak to him.” The consulting detective looked both worried and relieved.

Greg was about to protest, wanting to speak to Mycroft immediately, but then Sherlock lifted the laptop from Mycroft’s desk and he saw why.

No one from New York had thought to inform anyone on the London side that he was still alive until Lt. Reyes finally got his message. Reyes immediately called New Scotland Yard and reached out to Sally Donovan. Greg knew she would know to contact Sherlock first.

Everyone important to Greg Lestrade had spent the past several hours grieving his loss, but he was only worried about one person.

The reason for that worry evident as Sherlock slowly walked around his brother’s home office letting him see the damage Mycroft wrought in his grief.

_My God, the curtains! The curio! He… he destroyed the Ottoman book! Jesus Christ!_

“Sherlock please! I get it, let him see me!” Greg yelled out, to get Sherlock’s attention.

He watched as Sherlock crouched to the floor before his older brother and held the laptop.

_Oh Mycroft! Your face!_

Mycroft was slouched on the floor in front of his desk. Bloodshot eyes stared at unseeing ahead. The usually ice blue stare turned a dull near colorless grey in their misery. There was blood from a cut on his lip that trembled and dribbled on the tear-stained ruined shirt.

And yet through his utter misery he clutched a frame tightly to his chest. Greg knew by the frame exactly which picture Mycroft held.

Understandably, there were very few pictures of Mycroft. There were several photos of Greg taken from the media and personal.

However, there was only photo of the two of them together as a couple.

The one taken in the back garden of the townhouse. Mycroft had reached for his hand and said something ridiculously and unexpectedly sentimental. He and Mycroft had looked upon each other with such love and John had taken out his mobile and captured the moment unbeknownst to either until he gifted them the framed photo. It was taken before everything had gone so wrong, before Greg left him and London.

With a shock he realized that was the only physical thing Mycroft had of them together and nearly two years later that is what he clung to in lieu of him in his presumed death. The pain of that loss etched in the fiber of the man’s being as testament. There was no Iceman here.

“Brother Mine.” Sherlock had reached out a hand to his brother, but Mycroft shrank away not wanting the comfort.

“Mycroft” Greg gasped at the sight of the man. “Myc! Look at me! I’m alive. I’m alive! _Please_!”

Greg could see the enormous hurt as it began to slowly dissipate into hope as his voice penetrated the fog of Mycroft’s mind.

“Gr… Gregory...?” Mycroft’s head slowly rose up when he heard Lestrade’s voice and turned toward the laptop. He could see the shock of conflicting emotions run through him.

“Yes! I’m here! I’m here… I’m alive.” Greg repeated tremulously.

The change in Mycroft was swift and stunning as he crawled up the depths of his despondency and soared to the heights of elation at the sight of the Greg. Greg’s own heart soared at utter joy that transformation. Dulled eyes that brightened. Though he barely moved his posture was somehow straighter even as he relaxed in relief. Mycroft stared at the photo in his hand a moment and then back at the laptop as though he could not believe what he was seeing.

Mycroft’s breath shuddered in its release as he squeezed the photograph of them to his chest in lieu of the man himself as Gregory explained the series of errors that brought them to this moment.

“¡Mi amor! ¡Estas vivo!”

_Spanish? _

Greg remembered that Sherlock and John said Mycroft had gone linguistic.

It was a full sentence in single language; the was an improvement.

“My love! I’m alive. I understood you, but speak English please. Got nicked in the side. Nothing major hit, it passed through I’ll be fine. Myc, what happened to your lip?”

Greg found himself smiling fondly when Mycroft touched his own lip as though surprised to find himself injured. He had forgotten that Sherlock still held the laptop until its movement shifted from Mycroft to the chipped crystal decanter on the floor and back in response.

_Oh, he cut his lip drinking from the decanter._

_He drank directly from the decanter?!_

Greg might have laughed from the surprise of it were the reason why not so tragic.

Greg could tell when reality fully dropped kicked in and rebooted Mycroft’s mind as those cool eyes he has known and love for years fully focused and surveyed the damaged office.

“And you call yourself a detective?” Sherlock snarked as he turned the laptop’s camera to face himself. “I spared you the simpering sentimental heartache my brother had wallowed in when you left London in the first place, he deserved that. _This_ Lestrade is what happens to my brother when the love of his life has died on him.”

_Sherlock said _the love of his life_. _

There was a moment of silence as each man took in the words said, but no one denied them.

Sherlock's mercurial eyes flicked to his brother for a moment.

The two brothers kept their feelings for each other very much under wraps in their everyday lives. It was a shame that it generally took extremes for the care they truly have for each other to show as it did now.

Greg understood Sherlock was giving Mycroft a moment to collect himself, so he went along with it.

“Oh, you are not chastising me after what you did to John,” he countered with a smirk, “at least my presumed death was an accident.”

“Touché.” Sherlock was abashed for all of point two seconds before he continued. “Still, this is the second time he’s self-destructed because of you, Lestrade. My brother is not a young man. He cannot…”

“Sherlock do shut up.” Gregory interrupted, but there was no true malice to the words and he knew Sherlock knew that. “Put the laptop on the desk and leave the room. Mycroft and I need a moment alone. Go make him some tea and bring him back some biscuits. The drop is going to be substantial, he’s going to need it.”

“Really!” Sherlock drawled “What do I look like?”

Lestrade knew when Mycroft was severely upset it was almost like a diabetic shock to his system as he calmed down. Knowing Mycroft, whose eating habits were as bad as Sherlock’s at times, likely had not consumed anything since he left Hong Kong. He would need the light shoring up before he tackled real food.

“You look like you’re about to listen something utterly and disgustingly sentimental if you don’t get the bloody hell out of that office and do what I said.” Greg cut him off. “Or I’ll sicc Mrs. Hudson on you.”

It was a small huff of laughter from Mycroft, but he heard it as Sherlock quickly placed the laptop in front of Mycroft who now sat at the desk. Greg schooled his face to not stare at the torn drapery behind him.

Mycroft looked from the laptop in joyous wonder to him and mouthed _thank you_(!) to his brother.

“The two of you are sickening.” Sherlock receding voice muttered as he left the room.

“Моя любов, ти болить!” Mycroft’s eyes roamed over him.

“English, my love.” Greg chided softly.

“Then how did you know I said _my love_? Oh, you didn’t, know. You were saying it to me.” Mycroft asked and answered his own question then smiled in the realization of it.

“Oh, my love. You cannot begin to understand how joyous I am to look upon your visage again! You’re hurt - tell me!”

_All English! And he’s back. Thank you!_

“I can’t, I’m not on a secure line. When John told what happened with the miscommunication I just wanted you to see me.” Greg explained “Wanted you to see that yes, I was hurt, but I am alive and otherwise fine or rather I will be.”

The two said nothing for a moment. Just stared at each other.

“Gregory please! Please?” The words rushed from Mycroft’s lips, harsh desperate, pleading. His eyes glittered with unshed tears as he touched the monitor. “This is killing me. I don’t know… I… I… Oh, my love… Please. _Please_!”

He knew what Mycroft wanted. He desperately wanted it as well.

“Yes.” He nodded consent as he mirrored Mycroft’s touch to the monitor.

“Yes?” Mycroft’s entire face lit up as though afraid to hope.

“Yes.” Greg breathed in confirmation. “Please.”

“Thank you!” Mycroft let out a rush of air himself, “I wanted to before now, but I did not want to rush...”

“Tomorrow?” Greg knew how desperate he sounded. He did not care.

He only wanted one thing and it was an ocean away.

“Tomorrow.” The word was spoken softly, but Mycroft’s voice was firm and certain nonetheless. “Get some rest.”

Greg smiled in the assurance of Mycroft’s promise.

It was a comfortable quiet for a moment as Greg stared at the face of the man he knew loved him more than anything until Mycroft broke it with the only thing left to say.

“I love you.”

Mycroft still looked a mess, but as the face of the man he loved more than anything stared back at him Greg knew he had never seen anything more beautiful in all his life as he answered.

“And God help me, I still love you.”


End file.
